


business is different than what you envisioned, isn't it

by dysprositos



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Jonah Magnus's A+ Fundraising Decisions, M/M, Private Humiliation, Public Humiliation, Semi-Public Sex, anti-sex-worker slur, transactional sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysprositos/pseuds/dysprositos
Summary: Jonah Magnus is in the cloakroom at the Magnus Institute's annual Christmas party. He has an apology to give.
Relationships: Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	business is different than what you envisioned, isn't it

“It has—come to my attention,” Jonah says stiltedly, as soon as they’re hidden in the cloakroom (hidden from the guests, at any rate, and the servants will pretend if they know what’s good for them), “that I was... _mistaken_ about the Institute’s financial independence from your family.” He spits the word _mistaken_ out like a curse; as always, as a self-reference it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“And?” Mordechai sounds like a schoolmaster prompting an erring pupil.

“And I crave your pardon for. For my—disrespect. It was ill-done of me.” To his relief, Mordechai seems to accept this phrasing, and Jonah moves toward more familiar territory. “I’d like to make it up to you,” he says, reaching for the front of the other man’s trousers even as he begins to sink to his knees.

His hands are pushed away. “Jonah, Jonah,” the Institute’s best mortal patron says in the most affectionately patronising of tones. “ _That_ you’ve done to say _please_ , to say _thank you_ , even, yes, to offer apology. But here I think we both know you owe me all three. Doesn’t that call for something a bit more... intimate?”

Jonah stares. “We’re in the _cloakroom_ at the annual Institute _holiday party_. Hardly the time or place for— _intimacy_.”

Unlike some men of Jonah’s acquaintance, Mordechai does not make the ridiculous assertion that the servants won’t gossip. Unlike other men of Jonah’s acquaintance, Mordechai does not offer to use his patron’s powers to their advantage. Instead, he merely says, “I think your desire for privacy is between you and your patron, Jonah,” and Jonah hates him so, so much. And after a full minute of Jonah mastering his temper, Mordechai says bluntly, “You can either strip and bend over the table, or refuse me and watch everything you have built crumble to dust. The choice is yours,” and of course put like that it’s hardly a choice at all.

Preparations are brief—they always are—more a matter of ensuring Mordechai’s comfort during the act itself than Jonah’s. And as always, he is in no position to complain; he simply grits his teeth and thinks of the Institute. But Mordechai has one more indignity to force upon him tonight, pausing with two large oil-slicked fingers knuckle-deep in Jonah to state, ponderously, as though he just thought of it: “I want you to beg for it.”

He glares over his shoulder. “I _beg_ your pardon?” Mordechai raises an eyebrow; Jonah flushes and turns his head to look straight ahead instead, but refuses to repeat the question in less outraged tones.

“You see, dear Jonah”—terms of endearment are how the Lukas patriarch gloats—“I have in my pocket a very nice little speech, already written out, for you to use when you toast my contributions to the Institute.” There is absolutely no doubt in Jonah’s mind where the balance of credit for the Institute’s achievements and existence lies in Mordechai’s speech, and in fact Mordechai pauses to allow Jonah a moment to meditate on this, or as he chooses, to go to the little happy place in his mind where he has successfully murdered the man and forged his will to leave all he owns to the Institute. Only a vicious twist of the man’s fingers brings him back to hear “However, I will trust in your own judgment in phrasing your toast— _if_ you demonstrate your ability to satisfactorily meet my parameters right now, when you beg for my prick.”

Jonah takes several deep, even breaths. “What are your parameters.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” says Mordechai, no irony evident in his voice although Jonah is certain that if he turned to look he’d see the man smirking. Jonah does not turn to look. “I’ll keep it simple for you, dearest. I want self-abasement, and I want honesty. If you cannot give me both now, then you’ll simply have to learn the way of it by giving my toast. It is, of course—”

“My choice,” Jonah snarls. “I know.” Even breaths. Think of the Institute. Pray no one is listening on the other side of the coatrack, and compare everyone gathered at the party listening to him toast Mordechai Lukas in the words Mordechai Lukas wrote for him. It’s his choice, but there’s only one right one, and as the fingers within him withdraw and his mortal patron lines himself up, Jonah spits out, “Use me like the whore I am,” and Mordechai surges forward.

  


Later, Jonah Magnus toasts the Lukases, stating that the Institute would not be what it is today, or exist at all, without Mordechai Lukas’s generous contributions, and tries to ignore the knowing smirks on so many of the attendees’ faces, and when after the toast he sits down too forcefully and audibly hisses, he tries not to take note of which ones widen.

The Beholding is pleased enough to do that for him.


End file.
